Through closed windows and drawn curtains was borne the solemn clang of a bell in a church tower in the Avenue de Villiers, recording the death of to-day and the birth of to-morrow. A simple canary in its gilded cage, mistaking for morning sunshine the soft glow of electricity, as it filtered through its shade of orange silk, chirped a matin song in shrill staccato. A tiny slippered foot nervously patted the sleek fur of the tiger rug beneath it, a strong arm girt a slender waist; and, between the solemn strokes of the church bell, and the cheery passages of the bird-song, quick, passionate kisses alone stirred the scented air. The man spoke. It was Rene Delbet! "I must go now, darling," he said. "We have both braved too much already. He may return at any moment." "And if he did?" Valerie asked defiantly. "He might at least--suspect." "Suspect?" and she laughed a chorus to the canary. "He doesn't know what suspicion means. He would trust me with Mephistopheles himself. Should he find you here, he would only thank you for entertaining me. He's the most easy-going fellow in the world." The man smiled, released his companion from his embrace, and rose from the settee, upon which the two had been seated. "I'm afraid, my dear," he said, "that you presume too much upon his confidence. There is no cord so elastic that it will not snap." I waited for no more, but burst into the room, having, in my frenzy of madness, drawn a revolver from my pocket. "_Diable_! You?" cried Delbet, starting up in alarm. "Ah, my husband!" gasped Valerie, covering her blanched face with her hands. "_Sacre_! You shall die!" I shouted. The tolling bell throbbed once again, and then--a short, sharp, loud report and a flash together. A little puff of blue-grey smoke floated ceilingward, a man's frightened cry pierced the night, and upon the harmonious colours of the flower-strewn carpet Valerie lay dead. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rushing to my wife's boudoir, I broke open her escritoire, bent upon ascertaining the nature of any letters she might have concealed there. There were many. Ah, _Dieu_! When I think of the passionate love-missives penned by the man whom I had implicitly trusted, and admitted to my home as a friend, my brain is lashed to frenzy. One discovery I made was startling. Several of the letters bore the stamp of twenty-five centimes, and their envelopes were addressed to "Mademoiselle Halima Fathma, care of Hadj Hassan, Douera Algerie." Searching further, I discovered a full-length cabinet photograph, taken in Algiers. It was of Valerie dressed as the Sheikh's daughter, with the exception that the _adjar_, which had hidden the Arab girl's face, had been removed. In my surprise I almost forgot the terrible tragedy.